Under The Influence
by OfficerJackWhelan
Summary: Gregory makes a drunken mistake, and Sherlock is left to deal with the repercussions. The consulting detective believes that everything will be okay, as long as he manages to keep the situation a secret. But doing so might prove harder than he thought.
1. Chapter 1

**_Warning_: **_This particular piece of work deals with themes that may not be suitable for certain audiences. The following has been rated M for properties that some may consider triggering, or otherwise detrimental to their mental health due to past experiences. If such concepts may apply to you, please do not proceed any further**.**_

_**Disclaimer: **I do not own BBC Sherlock, nor any of it's components. _

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><p>"Sherrrrlawwwwk!" John yelled from downstairs. He knew that Sherlock would be zoned out in a chair somewhere, completely unaware of anything that he yelled, so ran up the stairs and searched for him. He walked through the kitchen, made his way through the living room, and then opened Sherlock's bedroom door. He flipped the light switch on, looked around for any signs of Sherlock, and then- after coming to the conclusion that his flat mate wasn't in his room, either- he turned the light off and left. He then walked over to the washroom, cautiously knocking on the door. He stood there for a moment, but received no response. He then slowly pushed the door open and peered inside. The first thing he noticed was the pair of shiny black dress shoes protruding from the tub. One was rhythmically swinging side to side, propped up on the other.<p>

"Sherlock!"

John walked over to the tub and looked down at the grown man awkwardly positioned in it. Sherlock was laying flat on his back, a bit leaning to the right. He had his arms folded over his chest like a dead man, and his eyes were closed. The classical music that he was listening to through his earbuds was blaring loud enough for John to hear.

"Hey!" John grabbed the wire connected to his earbuds and yanked it. Startled, Sherlock sprang up and smacked his head directly into his flatmate's. He then fell backwards and smacked the back of his head on the bottom of the tub. John stumbled backwards and fell on his arse, cursing obnoxiously as he grabbed his forehead.

"You fumbling twat..." Sherlock grumbled as he sat up and looked over at the man who had disturbed him. John stared at him, holding his aching forehead. He stood up and dusted himself off, then offered Sherlock a hand. Sherlock ignored the offer, using the side of the tub to help himself up. He then stepped out of the bath tub, readjusted his outfit, and asked the doctor what it was he needed so badly that he found it necessary to disturb him.

"Lestrade's here to pick you up," John said.

"Ah. Well, I told you I didn't want to go, so it would probably be best for you to inform him that I am not in need of a ride."

Sherlock walked past him and left the room. John followed him into the living room and grabbed him by the arm.

"Let go," Sherlock snapped. He turned around to look at John, who was giving him a bemused look.

"What?"

John just continued to stare at him.

"What?"

"I told Lestrade that you would go. You're going."

"You shouldn't have assumed that I would go. In fact, you should have known better than that. I don't like people, John. I definitely don't enjoy the company of others. You should be well aware."

"I know," John said, "And that's exactly why you're going."

"Which makes no sense."

"You're going, because you need some time around people. If you don't socialize more often, then you'll just become even more of an introvert."

"Is that really such a bad thing?"

John grabbed Sherlock's coat from off the back of the sofa, shoving it into his hands.

"Yes. Now go."

"I'm not-"

"I'll go down there, and Lestrade and I will drag you into the car if need be."

Sherlock stared at him skeptically for a few minutes, but John didn't waiver. His expression was deadpan. The shorter man was being 100% serious. If Sherlock wouldn't go by his own free will, then John would force him to go. It was as simple as that.

"Fine!" Sherlock shouted. He put his coat on and stormed off without another word. Then he realized that he had forgotten his scarf and came back. He snatched his scarf off of the chair and hastily wrapped it around his neck, then turned to John and fumed.

"Nobody's going to want me there," Sherlock said, "They'll probably try to kill me."

John rolled his eyes, taking Sherlock by his arm. He dragged him out of the room and down the stairs, stopping at the front door.

"If you need me, call my mobile. Don't worry, Sherlock, you'll be fine. Lestrade promised to keep you safe. "

Sherlock muttered something under his breath, but the doctor couldn't make out the words.

"I'll see you later," John said as he shoved the detective out of the door, "Have fun."

Sherlock stumbled out of the front door and nearly fell forward. He caught himself and stood upright, spinning around. As soon as he tried to get back into the flat, John slammed the door shut and locked it. The consulting detective patted down his pockets, but realized that John had even gone to the extent of taking his key.

He turned around and looked over at the car parked in a few feet away, Greg sitting in the driver's seat. The DI looked up and smiled, waving at him. Sherlock just stared at the man with a frown plastered on his face. Greg dropped his hand. Sherlock reluctantly walked up to the car, made his way around, and then opened the front door and stepped into the front seat. He closed the door beside him, and then grabbed the seat belt and buckled himself in. After making sure that he was secure , he looked over at the man next to him and gave him the most unenthusiastic expression possible.

"Well," Greg said as he examined the annoyed look on his friend's face, "Someone's got a stick up his arse."

"I don't want to go," Sherlock bluntly replied.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't see the point."

"The point is you get to hang out with your friend and have some good fun," Gred said, nudging him with his elbow. He smiled again, but Sherlock just looked at him and let out a depressing sigh.

"I don't do fun, Lestrade. I'm bad at fun."

Greg laughed, turning the keys in the ignition. The car revved to life, and the DI pushed gently on the gas. Slowly, the vehicle began rolling down the street.

"You can do fun," Said Greg, "You just haven't tried before. Right? We'll just have to get you into the spirit."

"Into the spirit?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. Y'know. Sit you down, get you a couple of beers."

Sherlock looked out of the window, the mention of alcohol only making him ever more less excited. He realized that it was beginning to rain, although just a slight drizzle. He watched the droplets of precipitation hit his window and roll down, letting out another sigh.

"It won't be that bad," Greg continued, "I promise."

"Who else is going to be there?" Sherlock asked.

"Just a few other colleagues."

"Like?"

Lestrade began going over the list of people in his head.

"Dimmock," He said. This recieved a low groan from the consulting detective.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing."

Sherlock turned his attention back out the window.

"Who else?"

"Well, there's Dimmock, but then there's also Jack, Anne, and Phil."

Sherlock jerked his gaze back to Greg, staring intensely at him. He furrowed his brow ad stared silently at the DI for a solid five minutes before the man started to feel uncomfortable under his peculiar gaze.

"What is it?" Greg asked.

"Phil? As in Phil Anderson?"

"Yes," Greg sighed.

"Stop the car."

"Now, Sherlock-"

"I said stop the car. I don't want to go."

"But you will anyway," Greg replied, "Because it's my birthday, and all I want to do is get a couple of drinks and hang out with my friends. That includes you, Sherlock. And you'll do this for me, because you owe me. You owe me at least that."

Sherlock stared at the man next to him for a long while, silently mulling over what he had just said. He contemplated arguing, but knew that he'd fail. Besides, Greg was right. He owed him. He owed him a lot. After all, the man had practically saved his life. And more than once.

"Fine," Sherlock said at last. Greg's lips curled into a smile.

"I don't see why I had to come and John didn't. You invited him, too, didn't you?"

"Yeah. But John already had plans. You didn't."

Greg looked over at him and grinned. He sort of scanned Sherlock from head to toe, and then looked back up at his face. Sherlock just stared at him with a blank expression, unsure of how to respond.

Greg parked along an old street and locked the car. He then led Sherlock a few streets over and into a large tavern, where they met with a group of people who looked somewhat familiar to Sherlock. Greg introduced him to them, and Sherlock just nodded his head, acknowledging that they existed. He caught Phil's gaze for a split second, then quickly diverted his attention elsewhere. Even though he couldn't see him, he could still feel Anderson's spiteful glare on his back.

He wanted so badly to turn around and say something to the irksome officer, but refrained from doing so because he knew that engaging in any venomous conversations while there would end up with Greg scolding him.

"I'm Anne," Said a particularly attractive blonde woman. She held her hand out to Sherlock, but he just stared at it. Greg chuckled awkwardly, dismissing Sherlock as an introvert. Phil muttered something smart under his breath, and Sherlock shot him a glare. The sergeant looked up at him and grinned smugly.

"Anyways," Greg said as he sat down at the table. "Another year older," He muttered.

Phil stood up and walked off. He returned a few minutes later with two glasses full of draft beer. He handed one to Sherlock, and then another to Greg. Greg thanked him and drank half of the glass, smirking over at Sherlock. Sherlock looked over at him, then down at the drink he had been offered. He eyeballed the contents suspiciously, then grabbed the glass and sniffed it.

"Really?" Greg asked.

"I just want to be sure Anderson didn't try to poison me."

Greg rolled his eyes. Sherlock held the glass up to his lips and hesitantly took a sip. He then chugged the entire glass and smacked it down on the table.

"That's the spirit!" Greg shouted. He gave Sherlock a firm pat on the back, and Sherlock actually smiled up at him.

Maybe this really wouldn't be that bad. Maybe he could enjoy himself...

Two hours and several drinks later, Sherlock was at the bar drinking shots with Philip Anderson, all of their differences set aside as they competed against each other in an attempt to see who could finish before the other. Anderson tipped his last shot against his lips and swallowed, slamming the small glass onto the bar. Sherlock had three small shot glasses left full, but there was no way he was going to finish them. He picked one up, but lost his balance and fell backwards. He smacked against the hardwood floor and his shot flew out of his hand, the small glass hit the floor a few feet away and shattered into pieces.

"Gotcha!" Phil yelled, pointing at him. He stumbled sideways and fell into a table, but still held up a triumphant hand. A crowd of nearby witnesses cheered him on. Sherlock struggled to get back onto his feet, and then he started swaying from side to side. He braced himself against the bar and looked around for Greg, but his vision was blurry and unfocused. He couldn't make out anyone's face.

"Oh..."

His stomach lurched. He could feel his insides growling, and then his mouth started watering. All of the signs were clear.

Quickly, Sherlock spun around and ran off. He tripped over a chair and fell onto his knees, but quickly regained himself and ran for the lou. He pushed his way into the washroom and ran over to the toilet, collapsing onto his knees as he grabbed the porcelain bowl and puked. He sat there and dry heaved a few times, then he puked again.

"You okay?"

Sherlock sat back and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He craned his neck around to look at they grey-haired man who had followed him in there. Sherlock groaned, but nodded all the same. He then turned around and grabbed the toilet seat, puking again. There were a few minutes of silence as he contained himself, then he heard the all-too familiar sound of the camera snapping on Greg's mobile.

"I hate you," Sherlock groaned.

He stood up and wiped his mouth again, his hands shaking.

"We oughtta get you back home," Greg said with a wide grin.

Sherlock turned around and shook his head. He rolled up his sleeves and combed a hand through his hair. Then he readjusted his shirt and began to walk towards the door.

"I'm fi-" He fell forward, fortunate that Greg was still sober enough to catch him.

"Think you had a bit too much," Greg said. Sherlock looked up and gave him a lopsided grin.

"Oh yeah," Greg replied, "You're done." The DI pulled Sherlock onto his feet and led him out of the washroom. He sat him down at a table, walked off to say goodbye to everyone else, and then came back and helped Sherlock out of his seat. He led the consulting detective out of the building and back to his car.

"You can't...drive..." Sherlock said.

"Relax," Greg replied, "I've done this before."

He struggled to get his keys into the door, cursing obnoxiously. He called the door lock several derogatory terms, and then he kicked the side of the car in frustration. Sherlock silently stood by and watched, smiling in amusement. Finally, the DI managed to unlock the car. He climbed inside, and Sherlock took a seat next to him.

"You sure thisss...is safe?" Sherlock asked.

Greg jammed his keys into the car ignition, and then he looked over at Sherlock and smiled. His smile faded too quickly, and then he leaned over and grabbed Sherlock. Out of nowhere, he attacked the younger man with a sloppy kiss. Sherlock reached up and pushed him off, staring at him like he was crazy.

"What the hell?" Sherlock asked.

Greg grabbed him again and pushed him right up against the door, kissing him . Sherlock tried to push him away, but it was hard to move in the small space of the car.

"Les...Lestrade!"

"Calm down, Sherlock."

"Get off of me."

"Sherlock, it's me. You can trust me."

"Stop. Lestrade-"

The Detective Inspector tried to kiss Sherlock again, but he managed to focus all of his strength and shove the man away. He then began franticly patting down his door, blindly looking for the door handle. Greg came at him again and he tried to kick him. It failed miserably. His ankle was grabbed, and then pulled on so that he was forced to lay down across the front seats. Greg got on top of him. Sherlock started to throw punches, but they were weak. His fighting was sloppy and untrained due to his intoxication.

"Stop that," Greg said as he grabbed the consulting Detective by his wrists and pinned his arms down above his head.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked incredulously. He was terrified; his fear sobering him up real fast. He tried to wriggle free, but the DI was stronger than he looked. He had a damn strong grip on the consulting detective's arms.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," Greg replied. He stared down at Sherlock and smiled kindly. He looked so innocent.

Sherlock just wanted to go home.

"I'm trying to do something nice for you," Greg said.

"I- I don't like this," Sherlock stammered. He was trying to calm down, but his heart refused to stop beating so rapidly. His body was coursing with fear. He didn't like being restrained at all. It made him feel weak and helpless.

"Relax," Said Lestrade, "I told you, I'm just trying to help. I mean, c'mon Sherlock... A bloke in his thirties, still a virgin? It's a bit embarrassing, don't you think?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw hurt. He tried with all of his strength to pull free of The detective Inspector's grasp, but it was futile. The DI only tightened his grip on him.

"Ow. Stop! You're hurting me!"

"Sorry. You should stop struggling, then."

"Get off of me, you imbecile. I will not tolerate this. Am I understood?"

"Oh," Greg laughed, "Look at you, all macho. Why do you always have to act like that?"

Sherlock bucked, trying desperately to get him off. He kicked his legs around and tried to wriggle free, but still failed. Greg used one hand to hold him down, while using the other to reach for Sherlock's belt. He unbuckled the belt, and then let go of his hands and tugged down on his trousers. As soon as Sherlock had his hands back, he started throwing drunken punches again. Greg managed to pull his trousers down to his ankles, and then he struggled to get them over his shoes. Sherlock kicked him into the door of the car, and he grunted, but quickly regained himself. He then grabbed Sherlock's pants and pulled them off, as well. Before Sherlock had the chance to land another kick, he leaned forward and laid on top of him, grabbing his hands again.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said all wide-eyed, "You're drunk."

"Magnificent deduction, genius."

Sherlock shifted underneath him, uncomfortable with the fact that his lower region was completely exposed. He tried to throw his head into Greg's, but couldn't raise his head very far due to the position he was being held in. He cursed inwardly, and then he threw himself into the seat and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Stop this," He said, "Please."

"There's no need to feel scared, Sherlock. You'll enjoy yourself, I promise."

"No I won't! I said no, Lestrade! Get off of me!"

Sherlock heard the man ontop of him reach for his own belt. His eyes popped open and he looked up at the man staring intensely at him. He felt as if his stomach had jumped into his throat.

"Stop," Sherlock said in the calmest tone he could muster, "I'm not consenting to this. This is rape."

Greg let out a low chuckle. He pull down his trousers, and then he grabbed Sherlock's leg and brought it up so that he could correctly position himself between the man's legs.

"It ain't rape if you like it."

Without further preparation, he forced himself into Sherlock and grunted. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he clenched his teeth as hard as he could to prevent himself from screaming in agony. Lestrade slowly pushed himself halfway in, and then he pulled out and repeated the process. His second thrust was less cautious, and was rewarded by the younger man screaming.

"Stop!" Sherlock yelled, "Please!"

Greg lowered his head next to his and breathed on his neck. Sherlock pulled his head away and pushed the DI's face away. This resulted in Greg grabbing his arm and holding it at his side. His grip was so strong that Sherlock's hand went numb; he couldn't feel his fingers.

"Please," Sherlock begged, "You're hurting-"

Greg forced his entire cock into him. He hit Sherlock's prostate, forcing the younger man into erection. Sherlock let out an animalistic noise and threw his head back, screaming.

"Greaaaah!"

He used his free hand to grab the car seat and squeeze, focusing on the strength he put into that. Greg didn't stop. He continued to do as he wanted, thrusting into him as if he just didn't care whether or not he hurt him. He eventually got braver and began to thrust faster; more violently. This resulted in even more discomfort and pain on Sherlock's end. However, Sherlock eventually just gave up and laid there. He was smart enough to realize that it was too late to prevent from happening, and he knew that it wouldn't really matter if he got the DI to stop, anyway. Too much damage had already been done. He might as well just give up and let the man finish.

So Sherlock fell motionless and escaped the only way that he knew he could. He closed his eyes and pretended like nothing was happening. He mentally ran away and hid in the depths of his mind palace, hoping that it would all be over soon.

And then Greg slammed himself against him one more time and held himself there as he climaxed. He let out a low moan, and then he fell on Sherlock and just laid there a while. Sherlock was pulled out of his own thoughts and brought back into reality. He could feel his supposed friend's warm breath against his neck and against his ear. He could smell the alcohol.

Then the DI pulled out of him, pulled his trousers up, and sat up.

Sherlock scrambled to sit up and grab his clothes. He quickly put his trousers on, not even bothering with his pants. Then he zipped his trousers and pushed himself directly against the door, wanting to be as far away from the man next to him as possible. Greg put the vehicle in gear and pushed on the gas. He continued driving down the road as if nothing had happened. He even glanced over at Sherlock and gave him a lopsided grin.

"See?" He said, "It wasn't that bad."

Sherlock just stared at him. His arse was too moist, and it made him uncomfortable. There was pain, but fortunately not a lot. Greg had been relatively gentle with him. He probably wouldn't even bleed. But still.

"C'mon, Sherlock. Chin up."

They veered off a bit, but Greg managed to pull back into the correct lane. His driving was still obviously drunk, but Sherlock didn't want to say anything. He couldn't say anything. His mind was crowded with thousands of useless, painful thoughts, and he was too distracted by them to really register his surroundings. And then the car suddenly made an abrupt turn and smashed right into a nearby building. Sherlock flew forward and hit his head on the dashboard, falling unconscious immediately.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg woke up to the sound of sirens. He was upside down, and he didn't know where he was. It was dark. When he tried to turn his head, his neck muscle tightened, and a bolt of pain shot through the base of his skull, radiating towards his forehead. He grunted, and then relaxed, allowing himself a moment to think as he dangled there, held in place by nothing more than a seat belt.

After a few moments, his vision had adjusted to the darkness, and he could tell he was in his car. He could just barely make out the outline of his dashboard. The vehicle had effectively flipped over. Underneath him was a wall of shattered glass- presumably the remnants of what used to be the windscreen. The door next to him had been smashed inwards, pinning his right arm between him and the interior of the door.

Unbuckling himself would be impossible, because his free arm was uselessly dangling below him, aching with pain. The shoulder felt dislocated, so he didn't even try to move it.

"Fuck."

Frustrated, he closed his eyes and tried to think. His thoughts were jumbled, and he felt like he was going to vomit. He couldn't think straight. He couldn't even remember what had happened.

The sirens finally fell silent, and he opened his eyes again. He tried to look around, but he couldn't see much. It was impossible to move his head without being rewarded by a sharp pain, so he had to rely on what he could see in his peripheral. He could see the familiar flash of red and blue lights outside the passenger side, and he could hear the sound of distant voices. The passenger side door had been completely removed from the vehicle, and was now lying on the ground.

"We need to get the car flipped over!" Shouted an unfamiliar voice. There was the sound of broken glass being stepped on as someone walked up to the vehicle, and then a young man appeared where the passenger side door used to be. He knelt down to look into the car, and Greg made eye contact with him.

"Oi!" The young bloke seemed surprised to find the Detective Inspector conscious.

"What..." Greg tried to ask him what had happened, but he still couldn't think straight, and forming cognitive words felt too difficult.

"Don't worry, sir. We'll get you outta there as soon as possible. Jus' stay still."

Before Greg could respond, the young paramedic disappeared. He let out a grunt, and then turned his attention back to the dark space in front of him, eyeballing the deflated airbag that covered most of the dashboard. He furrowed his brow, trying to remember what had happened.

He could remember the bar, and Sherlock being there...Sherlock actually getting along with Anderson...Sherlock puking...

Hadn't Sherlock been in the car with him?

Greg looked over at the passenger seat, and suddenly his chest felt tight.

"_Shit!"_

His thoughts started racing, and suddenly all he could think about was Sherlock flying through the windscreen, or Sherlock busting his head open on the dashboard and suffering from brain damage, or Sherlock being crushed by whatever the car had crashed into.

"**_Sherlock_**!"

Greg suddenly started to panic. He tried to jerk his pinned arm free, but every movement he made sent pain everywhere. His entire body hurt.

"_Fuck_!"

"You gotta stay still!"

The young paramedic reappeared, kneeling down in the passenger side of the car. He crawled into the vehicle, and then Greg felt his door being pried open. There was the sound of metal scraping against pavement, and then someone knelt down next to him.

"We're going to get you out of here," The new arrival said. He looked down at Greg, and then over at the younger paramedic, who was crawling into the car.

"You just have to stay still," The younger man replied.

"I can't," Greg said defiantly as he wriggled in his seat. He used his newly-freed arm to grab his seatbelt, and then started trying to pry the thin piece of fabric off of himself. This caused his head to throb even worse, but the adrenaline that had started pumping through his veins was enough to allow him to ignore the pain.

"Please calm down," Said the older paramedic.

"I can't! Sherlock is- _Where's_ _Sherlock_!?"

"We need to get you out of here," The younger man said as he held up a neck brace, "We can't get you out of here until we flip the car over, though. I need you to stay-"

"_Where is Sherlock_?" Greg growled, reaching towards the buckle against his thigh.

"Stay still so I can get this on you."

"Who is Sherlock?" The older paramedic asked.

Greg stilled as the younger man wrapped the thick, soft brace around his neck. He watched out of the corner of his eyes as he gave the older man a thumbs-up. The older man nodded in reply, and then turned his attention back to Greg. The Detective Inspector felt a hand on his wrist, and looked over to find the older man giving him a kind, sympathetic smile.

"Who's Sherlock?" He asked.

"He wasn't with me?" Greg asked, letting go of the buckle. The older man frowned, shaking his head. Greg visibly relaxed.

"Ya musta really hit yer head," The younger paramedic replied, "Nobody else was in the car."

Greg looked over at the younger man, furrowing his brow. Had Sherlock really not been with him?

"It's too much of a risk to try to get you outta here while yer upside-down," The paramedic said, "So we've brought a truck in ta flip ya over."

The younger man started to carefully maneuver out of the vehicle, trying his best not to put his hands down on any of the glass shards underneath him. He looked up at Greg to make sure he was alright, and then slipped out of the side door, standing up and disappearing. The older man disappeared with him.

A few seconds later, Greg heard the sound of something grinding. The car jerked sideways, and then shifted. Metal screeched against pavement, and then halted. Slowly, the vehicle began to roll. As it rolled, gravity forced Greg sideways, and the sudden shift strained the muscles in his dislocated arm. He used his good arm to hold his injured arm against his chest, and leaned back against the seat, trying his best to stay as still as possible. Eventually, the vehicle plopped into an upright position, and the sudden shift in gravity made the Detective Inspector's head swim.

Without warning, Greg lurched forward, puking all over his legs and the steering wheel. He coughed, and then choked, and then puked again.

"Are you alright?" Asked the older paramedic, who had materialized next to him again. Before Greg could reply, he vomited once more. This time, everything he had drank left his system, leaving his lap covered in a combination of alcohol and cake.

"That's okay," The paramedic soothingly replied, "We'll get you a fresh pair of clothes."

Greg felt a hand on his shoulder, but he didn't pay much attention to it. He suddenly felt quite odd. His head felt like it was full of helium, and the car felt like it was rocking. He was overwhelmed by an unexpected dizziness, and he couldn't focus on anything.

"Are you able to walk?"

The paramedic suddenly sounded like he was distant. Greg looked over at him and opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a slur.

"Werrr...am..."

"Hey, are you..."

Everything started to get darker. Greg's eyelids felt heavy. He tried to keep his eyes open, but it was futile.

The paramedic shouted at him, but he wasn't sure what he said. His eyes slipped shut, and he fell back against the seat. Everything went black. Before he knew it, he had drifted off, falling unconscious before he'd even gotten out of the vehicle.

* * *

><p>When Greg slipped back into consciousness, his head was throbbing. He could hear his pulse in his ears. He was connected to a morphine drop, but the dosage wasn't nearly enough to mask all of his pain.<p>

"Shit..."

He tried to bring a hand up to grab the side of his head, but his attempt was stopped short by a handcuff connecting him to the hospital bed. The small chain caught, and Greg furrowed his brow, confused. He lolled his head to one side and slowly peeled his eyes open, wincing as obnoxiously bright lights assaulted his vision.

"Christ...what the...?"

As soon as his vision adjusted, he looked over at the metal cuff around his right wrist, instantly perplexed by its presence.

"_You bloody imbecile_!"

Greg's thoughts were cut off when Sally Donovan started shouting at him from the other side of the room. He jerked his attention over to her, and she stood up from her seat at the small sofa on the far wall, briskly walking over to his bedside and smacking him in the shoulder before he had a chance to react.

"Ow! What the hell was that for!?"

She looked angry, and then her eyes glazed over, and she gently wrapped a hand around Greg's head, bringing him towards her and planting a tender kiss on his temple.

"I'm so happy you're alright," She said. Greg just sat there, dazed, until she stepped back and smacked him again.

"_Sally_!"

"You stupid prat!"

"_Stop it!_"

"The next time you pull a stunt like this," She said, "I'll kill you. I'm serious!"

"Okay, okay! _Christ_. No need to-"

Before he could finish, she hit him again. He abruptly stopped speaking, gave her an annoyed look, and then waited until she dropped her arm back to her side Before

"You done?" He asked, clearly agitated.

"You deserve a lot worse than that, you stupid, stupid..."

"_I get it,_" Greg replied. He winced as a bolt of pain shot through his temples, and tried to bring his hand up to grab his head, but the handcuff deterred him once more.

"_What are these bloody things on me for_?" He asked as he impatiently tugged at the handcuff . Sally rolled her eyes, and then reached into her pocket, conjuring a pair of keys. She walked around the bed, and Greg impatiently watched as she stuck one of the small keys into the keyhole of the metal cuff around his wrist.

"You mean _you_ put them there?" He asked, looking up at her. She twisted the small key, and the cuff popped open. Greg brought his hand up and looked down at it, flexing his fingers. He made a fist, and then released it and dropped it to his side as he looked back to the younger woman standing nearby.

"Yeah, I did."

"Well what'd you do _that_ for?" Greg asked. He watched as the younger officer disconnected the handcuffs from the bed and put them into her pocket. She stuffed the keys into the same pocket, and then turned her attention back to him.

" 'Cause I wanted to make sure you didn't go anywhere," She replied. Greg snorted.

"Where exactly would I go?" He asked, eyeballing her.

"I dunno," She said, "Maybe you'd leave before I had a chance to scream at ya! Or maybe I was ordered to do it, because the original plan was to arrest you for _a bloody DUI, and I was generous enough to coerce the Yard not to press any charges_!"

Greg sat there and stared at her for a while. An awkward silence filled the room, and he suddenly felt uncomfortable. He diverted his gaze, but he could still feel the sergeant's glare drilling into him. He swallowed hard, and then said nothing but "sorry." Sally snorted.

"_Sorry?" _She repeated with a tone of incredulity, "You nearly killed yourself, and all you have to say is _sorry_?"

Greg looked up at her again, and she shook her head in disbelief. She turned to leave, and Greg sat forward.

"Wait, Sally-"

He tried to stop her, but she ignored him.

"Oh, c'mon! Sally, I'm-"

She spun around and glared at him.

"I'm glad you're not dead," She growled, "I really am. But this is the dumbest stunt you've ever pulled, and if you ever do something like this again, I'll never speak to you."

Greg's jaw fell slack, and he found himself unable to form a response. Before he knew it, Sally had spun back around and rushed out of the room without another word, leaving him alone. He slinked back into the comfort of the hospital bed and let out a sigh. He brought a hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and a forefinger, then dropped his arm and groaned.

It was at that precise moment that he realized something was wrong. He looked around the room, and then it hit him.

_Sherlock_.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?"<p>

Sherlock looked over at the bathroom door out of the corner of his eye, and then flicked his gaze back to the mirror, studying his own reflection. He brought a hand up and gently caressed the obnoxious bruise that had formed around his left eye. His gaze lingered on the miscoloured skin for a moment, and then he dragged his hand down to his lips, gliding a finger along his bottom lip, and then resting it on the large cut at the corner of his mouth.

"I didn't hear you get home last night," John said, "Are you alright?"

Sherlock decided to ignore him. He diverted his gaze from the mirror, and then walked over to the bathroom door and turned the small lock, assuming John would take that as cue to leave him alone. There was a moment of silence, and then John let out an exasperated sigh. He walked off, and Sherlock just stood there, absent-mindedly staring at the door For a while.

He zoned out, and his mind started wandering.

_''It ain't rape if you like it.''_

Greg's voice echoed through his mind, like a piece of information burnt into his memory for all of eternity. It wrapped around him and dragged him back to the moment all over again, forcing him to relive the entire experience.

_''Why do you always have to act like that?''_

_He could feel the weight ontop of him- the unwanted warmth against him. He could smell the alcohol, and the painful grip on his wrist. His heart beat violently against his chest, and it was hard to breathe. He felt so constrained. He couldn't move._

_He couldn't breathe._

"I'm going to work!"

John's voice broke through the memory, and suddenly Sherlock was back in the safety of his own bathroom. He franticly looked around, and then tried to calm his breathing.

"I'll seeya later," John said. Sherlock listened to the sound of footsteps walking away, and then looked down at his hands. He stared at the ripe bruises that wrapped around his wrists, and suddenly his chest felt tight.

"It doesn't make sense," He whispered to himself as he tried to deduce the reasoning behind Gregory's behaviour. He stared at his hands for several minutes, trying to make sense out of everything.

"Why would he...?"

He could feel the familiar sting in his eyes as they glazed over. His hands started trembling, and his vision blurred with tears. He hastily wiped them away, and then spun around and walked over to the shower.

"It's doesn't matter," He said with a wave of his hand, "Just delete it."

He took a deep breath, stood up straight, and then closed his eyes as he let out the breath and tried to relax.

"Delete it."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"_Delete it_."

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <strong>_Updates will be every other Friday. Chapter Three will be posted on November 21st, 2014. _

_This particular story does not have a Beta, so feel free to point out any mistakes if you see it necessary. (I'm not from the UK, so there may be a few mistakes considering terminology/grammar.)_


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of footsteps echoed obnoxiously through the long corridor. The tall, blonde man who had been walking stopped in front of a large pair of double doors, and then reached into the inside pocket of his suit, retrieving a small identification card. He stepped aside and swept the card against a small metal device implanted into the wall. The small device chirped, and the large doors in front of him swung open on their own.

"Good morning," A bodacious brunette greeted. The tall blonde simply nodded in response, looking around the room. Large monitors lined the far wall, accompanied by two large men dressed in security outfits. The large men sat in a pair of chairs placed in front of the monitors, eyeballing the surveillance footage in front of them. They paid no attention to the brunette, nor the man who had just entered the room.

"Looking for something in particular, Mr. Charles?"

The tall blonde looked down at the pair of men, and then swept his gaze back to the woman beside him.

"Any idea where I might find Mycroft, Anthea?"

She smiled.

"Mr. Holmes has retired to his office for the rest of the evening."

"Right."

With that, he turned back around and left, tucking his identification card back into the pocket of his suit. He made his way halfway down the long corridor, and then turned left at an intersecting hallway, making his way to a line of lifts along the left wall. He pressed the small button with an arrow pointing up, and then took a step back and patiently waited. The last pair of doors opened, and he quickly walked over, stepping inside and spinning around just as the doors closed again.

He poked the button with a large seven pasted on it, and then stepped back and stood there as the lift moved upward. A few seconds passed, and then the lift came to a halt, and the doors opened once more. Without hesitation, he stepped outside and made a left turn at the intersecting hallway, walking all the way down until the length of hall ended.

He made his way up to a single translucent glass door, framed by metal. Before he had a chance to knock, the door swung open, and he took a reflexive step back, moving aside as an unfamiliar colleague of his walked past. He gave the man a glance, and then caught the door before it shut, quietly stepping into the room and gently closing the door behind him.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Come in," Mycroft coolly replied, not even turning to see who had entered. The tall blonde walked over to the large velvet chair that Mycroft was seated in. He looked around the rather domesticated office- a small sofa along one wall, a bookshelf on the wall opposite, a few framed photographs on the desk- and then turned his attention back to the man seated before him.

"Sir, we've logged an emergency phone call from your brother's mobile at approximately four this morning."

Mycroft looked up from the book he had been reading and gave the younger man a curious look.

"Do repeat yourself," He said, "I think I misheard you."

His subordinate nodded.

"There was an emergency phone call made from your younger brother's mobile."

Mycroft glanced down at the page he was on, and then patiently shut the book and placed it on the small side table next to his chair.

"And what time did you say this call took place?" He asked, clearly intrigued.

"Four this morning, sir."

When Mycroft looked up at him again, he looked anything but pleased. His mouth had curled into a grimace, and his gaze drilled into the younger man with such intensity that the man felt uncomfortable.

"And why am I _just now_ being informed of this?"

"We weren't aware of it, sir."

"_And why not?_"

Mycroft was losing his patience, and the man beside him was well aware of that. He knew that he would have to choose his next words very carefully, or he could end up without a job. Or worse.

"The situation has been thoroughly looked over. It did not seem of great importance."

Mycroft raised his brow, crossing one leg over the other as he folded his hands in his lap.

"Explain." Is all he said. His subordinate nodded, shifting his weight as he cleared his throat.

"There was a call made from the phone at 4:03 this morning. An unidentified man informed the hospital of a man who had been severely injured in a car accident. He gave the address, and then abruptly hung up before anymore information could be relayed."

"And this call was traced back to my brother's mobile?"

"Yes."

"Has the necessary procedure taken place?"

The man nodded.

"There is no footage of the car crash, but security cameras have caught glimpses of a tall, dark man walking towards the Baker Street residence. The individual matches your brother's description, but the footage is grainy. An agent has been dispatched to investigate further."

"Good."

Mycroft uncrossed his leg, and then braced the arm rests of the chair, pushing himself out of the seat as he stood up.

"Clear my schedule," He said as he walked over to the coat rack in the corner of the room. He snatched his coat, and then stuffed an arm into one of the sleeves, turning around as he did the same with his other arm.

"I will make a visit to 221b and personally make sure my brother is safe..."

He made to walk past the younger gentleman, but abruptly stopped right next to him, glaring at him from the corner of his eye.

"...Since you fools are too incompetent to get things done."

The tall blonde looked over at him.

"Sir-"

"Shut up," Mycroft barked, "And next time you speak to your superiors, let them know that you will no longer be working for them."

"But sir-!"

Mycroft grabbed his arm, and then turned so that his entire body was facing him. He glared down at the younger man, who immediately stopped speaking.

"It should not have taken you three hours to inform me of this incident," Mycroft growled, "Consider yourself lucky that I am being so lenient."

He swallowed hard, and Mycroft released his arm, walking away without so much as another word. The older Holmes shoved the door open, and then disappeared as he slammed it shut behind him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock shoved the shower curtain aside and stepped out of the shower, grabbing his towel off of the edge of the sink. He used the towel to dry his hair, and then wrapped the soft, white sheet around his waist, kicking his soiled clothes aside as he walked over to the door. He unlocked the door, and then grabbed the metal doorknob and twisted it, swinging the door wide open. A cloud of steam evacuated the room, and Sherlock shivered, surprised by the cool air that replaced the warm moistness.<p>

"Thermostat must have broken," He muttered under his breath as he turned towards the kitchen.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He called, maneuvering through the disheveled area. He stepped over a large pile of books, walked around the kitchen table, and then ducked under a large slab of wood dangling from the cieling.

"Mrs. Hudson, the thermostat has-"

He walked into the living room, and then stopped and froze in place as soon as he noticed John seated on the sofa. He fell silent, and John casually looked up from the newspaper that he had been reading. As soon as he saw Sherlock's physical state, his expression hardened. His lips curled into a grimace, and his brow furrowed worriedly. For a moment, he just sat there, staring in awe.

"John, I-"

"_The bloody hell did you do_?" John enquired, visibly concerned by his flatmate's appearance. Sherlock blinked, unsure of how to respond. Before he had a chance to answer, John sat the newspaper aside and pushed himself off of the sofa, standing up and walking over to him. Sherlock took a timid step back as the shorter man approached.

"What happened?" John asked. Sherlock watched as he scanned him from head to toe. As soon as they met gazes again, John's expression hardened, and the consulting detective had to look away. He diverted his gaze to a small stain on John's collar.

_It was a small spot of blood. It easily could have been from one of John's patients, but it wasn't. The blood was still wet, and John had a small scrape along his jawline where he must have cut himself shaving that morning..._

"_Sherlock_!"

Sherlock jumped, startled by the sudden outburst.

"I'm serious," John growled, "What happened?"

He looked down at John, studying his face. There was a mixture of concern and distress in the way he looked at him. He almost seemed angry, but Sherlock wasn't sure if he was angry at him, or angry because he was becoming impatient by the consulting detective's silence.

"I was mugged," Sherlock blandly replied. He tried to keep a straight face. Before he had the chance to explain further, though, he was caught off guard by his flatmate's change in expression. The shorter man now looked...almost _sad_.

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>Phillip Anderson woke up to the sound of his mobile phone ringing on his bedside table. The small device vibrated against the wood, repeatedly beeping. The Seargent let out a low groan, and then reluctantly rolled onto his side and reached over to the table, blindly patting down the surface. He accidentally smacked his mobile off of the table, and it fell onto the ground with a loud thud.<p>

Anderson sighed heavily, and then decided to lay there and just wait for the annoying sound to stop. He rolled back onto his stomach, and then covered his head with his pillow, holding it in place. Eventually, his mobile stopped ringing, and he relaxed, putting the pillow back under his head. He drifted back to sleep...

And then his mobile phone started ringing again.

"Bloody hell!"

This time he forced himself to sit up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed, leaning down to pick up his mobile. He almost turned it off, and then he noticed that it was Sally calling. He let out another sigh, and then swiped his finger across the screen and answered the incoming call, putting the small device up to his ear.

"Phil?"

"D'you know it's bloody seven in the morning?" He asked, still groggy with sleep. He used his free hand to hold his head, which was aching with the effects of a hangover.

"Did you let Lestrade drive home last night?" She asked. Anderson frowned, furrowing his brow as he tried to remember. He glanced over at the calendar hanging on his wall, wondering what day it was.

"What day is it today?" He asked.

"Are you _bloody_ _kidding me_?"

"Sally, I've got a hangover, for Christ's sake."

"Well you should've been more responsible, you ignorant twat!"

Anderson flinched, holding his mobile away from his ear as his colleague shouted into it. He put the phone back to his ear, and then stood up and walked out of the room, making his way towards the washroom.

"Right," He said, "What's got your panties in a twist, huh?"

"Lestrade got into a wreck last night, you moron!"

"_What_?"

Anderson stopped walking.

"_Is he alright_?" He asked.

"Yeah," Sally replied, "He's alive. Moron's got a broken arm, though. Probably a concussion, too. Maybe a few broken ribs. I dunno. But he's _damn_ lucky he's still breathing."

"What about Sherlock?" Anderson asked as he shuffled down the hall. He opened the wooden door on his left, then walked in, opening the medicine cabinet above the sink and sorting through the bottles of medication stacked inside.

"Sherlock?" Donovan asked.

"Yeah. Lestrade took him home last night."

There was nothing but silence on the other side of the call. Anderson found the bottle he had been searching for. He checked the label, and then screwed open the cap, tipping four pills into his hand and popping them into his mouth. He dropped his head back and swallowed the medication without much difficulty, then screwed the pill bottle cap back on and put the small container back in the medicine cabinet, shutting it.

"Sally?"

"Lestrade was alone," Donovan said. Anderson took a moment to think this bit of information over, and then shook his head.

"No..." He said, "Lestrade took the freak home. I think he threw up."

"Lestrade threw up?"

"No, Sherlock. He threw up, so Lestrade said he was gonna take him home."

"That can't be."

"Yeah; Ask Dimmock. He showed up a bit after Lestrade... who brought the freak with him. I seriously dunno what he sees in that psychopath."

"Either way," Sally said, "Lestrade was alone. He was the only one at the hospital. Maybe he dropped Sherlock off before he got into the accident."

Anderson thought about this, and then nodded.

"Must have," He said. He shuffled into the kitchen, and then opened the refrigerator, groaning as he realized that the large kitchen appliance was void of anything edible. The only food was a container full of bacon, but as soon as he pulled it out, he realized that the meat inside had started to mould.

"Dammit."

"What?"

Anderson tossed the container full of rotten bacon into the bin, and then kicked the refrigerator door shut.

"Hey, Sally. You up for breakfast?"

* * *

><p>John led Sherlock over to the sofa, and then sat him down, kneeling in front of him.<p>

"It isn't a big deal," Sherlock said. John gave him a pointed look.

"Yes, it is."

He looked down at Sherlock's abdomen, and then brought his hand up, gently caressing the large bruise that had formed just below the consulting detective's rib cage. Sherlock flinched away from the contact, taking a sharp breath.

"Does that hurt?" John asked as he looked up. Sherlock clenched his jaw and looked away, shaking his head. He didn't want to admit it, but the last thing he wanted was to be touched. He felt disgusting, and vile, and..._used_.

"I'm sorry," John said, and Sherlock looked at him again, furrowing his brow in confusion.

_Sorry? What for?_

"I'm sorry someone did this to you," John said. For a moment, Sherlock just stared at him. He didn't realize that he had started crying until John reached up and wiped the tear away from his cheek, smiling sadly.

"Please just let me make sure everything is physically alright."

Sherlock nodded solemnly. John nodded, and then returned his attention to the bruised area. He lightly pressed his fingers down on the miscoloured skin, feeling around. Sherlock grunted, and then readjusted himself, trying not to make too much noise. John finished feeling around the right side of his ribcage, and then brought his hand over to the left side.

"Lean back a bit," John said. Sherlock leaned back, and John continued to prod him, feeling around for broken bones. He finished, and then stood up.

"Lean forward a bit."

Sherlock sat forward, and his flatmate gently took hold of his head, checking the area for any open wounds. He felt around the consulting detective's scalp, and then let go of him and took a step back.

"How long have you been home?" John asked.

"Two hours, I think."

"Why didn't you get a ride?"

"I snuck out of the bar while nobody was looking," Sherlock lied.

"You should have called me."

Sherlock looked up at him and frowned.

"Are you saying I'm to blame for this, John?"

"_Of course not_," John replied. Sherlock dropped his head so that the small army doctor couldn't see his expression.

"I know," He said, "I'm foolish. I should have called."

"No. Sherlock, I didn't mean..."

"I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, this isn't your fault. You weren't even sober."

"I still feel stupid."

"You aren't stupid."

"I know I'm not stupid," Sherlock said as he cupped his face with his hands, "I don't mean that kind of stupid, though."

"I don't understand."

"You never do," Sherlock muttered. John smiled sadly, and then sat down on his knees, gently pulling Sherlock's hands away from his face.

"Look at me," John said.

"I don't want to."

"Sherlock."

"Just leave me alone, John."

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock sat there for a moment, motionless. He let out a sigh, and then reluctantly looked up at the army doctor. John took his hand, and then smiled again. Sherlock studied him, curious as to why he was being so nice to him.

_John was __always__ nice._

"John..."

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Without you laughing at me?"

"Why would I laugh at you?"

Sherlock looked down again, trying to think of what to say. When he looked up again, John was simply watching him with a patient look on his face.

"What is it?" John asked.

"It's just...I don't really...I don't understand."

"You don't understand?"

"Yes... I know, I should be able to. I'm good at deducing things. But in all honesty, I don't really grasp human emotion well, and I was just wondering..."

"Yeah?"

"Well...Why are you always so nice to me?"

This actually caught the short army doctor off guard. He gave the consulting detective a curious look, and then lightly laughed, giving him a kind smile.

"Because your my friend. Obviously."

Sherlock blinked.

"What?"

"Your my friend," John replied, "That's just what friend's do."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, unsure of how to respond. He looked down at the hands holding his own, and then back up at John, cocking his head to the side.

"Really?"

"Of course."

Sherlock nodded, and then dropped his head again. There were a few minutes of silence, and then John spoke up again.

"Hey."

John let go of his hand and patted his knee, trying to get his attention again. Sherlock looked up at him.

"I'm sorry," John said as he looked him directly in the eyes, "I shouldn't have made you go. I won't make you talk about it. But if you want to, you can. Alright?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted.

"I'm not asking if your fine," John said, "I'm telling you that... _if you aren't_... That's okay."

* * *

><p><strong> Author's Note:<strong>

_Next Chapter update on December 5. _

_Thank you to all who have read/reviewed/liked the story so far. I hope you enjoy the rest of this tale._


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock, you need to be careful."

The consulting detective rolled his eyes, paying no attention to his flatmate. He continued to haphazardly climb up the ladder until he could reach the ceiling. John rolled his eyes, walking past the cluttered kitchen table and over to the counter, leaning against it as he watched his audacious flatmate. After a few moments of observation, he sat his tea down on the counter, and then walked over to the base of the ladder and grabbed the sides, holding them down to make sure his reckless companion didn't end up losing balance and tipping the large metal ladder over, which would inevitably end up causing more unnecessary injury.

"Are you listening to me?" John asked, looking up at the tall, well-dressed individual standing above him. Sherlock gave him an irritated glance, but quickly returned his attention to what he was doing.

"I'm being careful," He said, obviously annoyed by John's nagging.

"Right. But you shouldn't even be up there. You could have a concussion."

"I don't have a concussion," Sherlock blandly retorted.

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do."

"Sherlock, it isn't possible-"

"Just shut up."

John stopped talking. There were a few minutes of silence, and then he suddenly wondered what Sherlock was even doing. He stepped back from the ladder and looked up, watching as the consulting detective dipped his hand into a jar of strawberry jam and smeared it on the cieling.

"Sherlock!"

The consulting detective dropped his hand and looked down at him, cocking an eyebrow.

"What?"

"What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Sherlock blinked. He looked up at the smeared condiment on the cieling, and then back to John.

"I'm wiping jam on the ceiling."

"Why?"

"For a case," Sherlock replied. He reclosed the jar of jam, and then carefully climbed back down the ladder, walking over to the sink.

"You took a case?" John asked as he turned the sink on.

"Yes." Sherlock set the small jar down on the counter, and then grabbed the nearby bottle of soap and squeezed it onto his hands, putting the bottle back and rubbing his hands together as he put them under the lukewarm stream of water flowing from the sink faucet.

"You didn't tell me," John said. He watched as Sherlock grabbed a hand towel and used it to dry his hands off, tossing it onto the counter as he picked up the jar of jam and carried it over to the refridgerator. The taller man put the jam back in the fridge, and then turned to face his flatmate.

"I wasn't aware I needed your permission to take on a case," He said.

"You don't," John said, "It just would have been nice to know."

Sherlock walked over to the ladder and folded it closed, leaning it against a nearby wall.

"Believe it or not," He said as he ducked under the wooden target hanging from the ceiling to make his way into the living room, "I'm capable of doing things on my own."

John followed him, wanting to keep a close eye on him in case he he did have a concussion. Sherlock outright refused to go to the hospital, so it was the least the short doctor could do to make sure his friend didn't pass out and die.

"I'm aware, Sherlock. I'm not saying you should drop everything. I'm just saying it would be healthier for you to try being less...reckless."

"_Healthier_?" Sherlock asked, turning to face him again.

"For your mental state," John said. Sherlock looked offended.

"Are you trying to tell me I'm mentally unstable?"

"What? No. Sherlock-"

"I told you, _John_, I'm fine."

John didn't seem to believe him, though. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Sherlock interrupted him before he had the chance to utter out a single word.

"_Don't_."

The two of them stood there, staring at each other for a solid minute. John furrowed his brow, and then shifted his weight, folding his arms over his chest in a disapproving manner.

"Stop doing that. I'm not a bloody child, Sherlock."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, "Because you often showcase the IQ equivalent of a toddler."

"Look whose talking!"

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"You always act like this!" John shouted. Sherlock flinched at that remark, abruptly falling silent.

_"Look at you, all macho. Why do you always have to act like that?"_

He cringed, immediately diverting his gaze away from John as he tried to force the thought away. John noticed the sudden change in demeanor . He studied him for a brief moment, and then took a cautious step towards him, asking him if he was okay. Sherlock subconsciously took a step back, waving it off as he muttered something under his breath.

"What?" John asked, visibly concerned.

"I'm fine," Sherlock reiterated. He quickly turned his attention to something else, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.

"I need to find a measuring tape," He said. He turned around and walked off without saying anything else. John quickly persued, still concerned by his flatmate's sudden moodswing.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"I might be stupid, but I'm not blind."

"_I'm fine_."

"You keep saying that, but something's clearly bothering you."

Sherlock clenched his jaw, closing his eyes as he came to a halt. He suddenly felt like crawling out of his skin, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. He knew John was bound to notice if he didnt make up an excuse soon.

"It's just something I remembered," He said, his voice low. John eyeballed him curiously.

"Right. Look..."

John slowly approached him. His hand momentarily hovered above Sherlock's shoulder, but he quickly realized that perhaps physical contact wasn't something Sherlock would appreciate at the moment, so he dropped his hand and smiled.

"I've got a measuring tape somewhere," John said, "I'll find it." Sherlock looked back at him, and he smiled.

"I'll be right back."

* * *

><p>Phil walked over to a small round table in the corner of the cafe and pulled out one of the chairs, gesturing for his colleague to sit down. Sally sat down in the offered seat, and then scoot in, thanking him as he walked around the table and took a seat on the side opposite.<p>

"May I order your drinks?" The waiter implored, pulling out a small notebook and pen from his back pocket. Anderson looked up at the rather tall brunette, and then down at his menu.

"Coffee sounds fine for me," He replied. The waiter nodded, and then turned his attention to Sally, who simply said she'd take the same.

"And how would you like those?" He asked as he wrote down the orders. Anderson asked for his coffee black, and Donovan asked for cream and sugar. The waiter finished jotting down all of the information, and then gave them a brief smile and left without further conversation.

"So," Donovan said as she folded her hands on the table, "How was it last night?"

Anderson shrugged.

"It was fun," He said, "You should've come."

"I know. Lestrade asked, but I'd already made plans."

Anderson nodded, sitting back in his seat.

"Right," He said, "Visited your brother, didn't you? How is he?"

"He's doing better now that he's getting the proper care, at least."

Anderson nodded again. He smiled, and then looked down, picking a piece of invisible lint off of his trousers. Donovan stared at him for a moment, and then let out a sigh.

"Is something wrong, Phil?"

He shook his head.

"I just...I can't shake this feeling that something isn't right."

"What do you mean?"

When he looked up at her again, he looked confused, as if he were trying to work out a math problem, but couldn't quite remember the method.

"It's just... a bit sketchy, don't ya think? I mean, Lestrade leaves with Sherlock, and he ends up crashing into a bloody street pole."

"He was drunk," Sally replied matter-of-factly.

"Well _yeah_," Anderson continued, "But where did Sherlock go? You said the wreck happened three blocks away from Baker Street."

"What are you saying?"

Anderson looked up at her.

"I just think it's weird," He said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The waiter came back with their drinks. He sat the two mugs of coffee down on the table, and then handed Donovan two sugar packets and a small creamer.

"You two ready to order?" He asked. Sally looked over, and Phil shook his head.

"Few more minutes," Anderson said. The waiter nodded, and then disappeared, leaving them alone once more. As soon as they were out of hearing distance from anyone, the female sargeant leaned forward, lowering her voice as she spoke.

"Do you think the freak had something to do with the accident?" She asked. Anderson leaned forward, looked around to make sure nobody was paying attention to their conversation, and then looked his colleague straight in the eyes.

"He wasn't at the scene," He said in a hush tone, "But he should have been. Judging by the location of the crash, Lestrade wouldn't have had the chance to get him home. Even if he had, there wouldn't be any need for him to go back down that particular street, because his apartment is in the same direction as Sherlock's flat."

Donovan stared at him for a moment, and then sat back and crossed her arms over her chest, processing this information. Anderson decided to skim through the menu as she mulled the thought over in her head.

"So you really think Sherlock did it?" She asked after a few minutes had passed. He looked at her over the top of his menu.

"He's a psychopath," He said.

"How'd he do it, though?"

"No idea," Anderson casually replied as he continued to read the list of lunch items. He picked up his coffee and took a sip, then put the small mug down on the table and folded his menu up, laying it down.

"He apparently had reason to flee the scene," He added.

"Good point," Donovan replied. She glanced down at her watch, and then looked up at him again.

"Lestrade wants me to get his car from impound tomorrow," She said, "You should come with me. Give the vehicle a quick look-over, see if anything seems out of place."

* * *

><p>"Doctor Watson<em>, I demand to see my brother<em>!"

John stood firm in the doorway and crossed his arms over his chest, straightening his posture as if attempting to look taller.

"Well, you're just going to have to come back next week," He said, squaring his shoulders. Mycroft took a step forward and bent down so that he was eye level with the shorter man. He firmly planted the tip of his umbrella on the ground, and then looked John straight in the eyes and demanded him to get out of his way.

"_Move_."

John stared right back at him, stance remaining confident.

"You don't scare me, Mycroft."

Mycroft squinted at him.

"I s_hould_," He growled. John rolled his eyes, obviously not threatened by the taller man. He unfolded his arms and stuffed the tape measure that Sherlock had wanted into his back pocket, and then stood there with his hands on his hips.

"John," Mycroft said as he took a step back and straightened himself out, "It would be ill-advised of you to-"

"Sherlock's not feeling well," John interrupted, "And he has explicitly stated that nobody is to bother him. _Especially you_."

Mycroft tried to step past him, but he quickly side-stepped, blocking the opening. Mycroft gave him an annoyed look, and then tried to step past the other side, but was effectively blocked once more.

"Not going to happen, Mycroft."

"You're getting on my last nerve, John."

"He said he doesn't want to talk to anyone unless it has to do with a case."

"Then I have a case."

"No, you don't."

"You don't know that."

"I'm not as bloody stupid as you think!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, folding his arms over his chest. He contemplated simply shoving the shorter man out of his way, but the odds of that going over smoothly were not in his favour.

"Please move," Mycroft said, quickly losing his patience. John gave him an annoyed look, slowly becoming agitated by his persistence.

"No."

The older Holmes clenched his jaw.

"John Hamish Watson..."

"Well now you sound like my mother," John said, smiling as if he were pleased with himself.

"You're not funny," Mycroft blandly replied.

"You don't even have a sense of humour, so how would you know?"

"_Just let me in_."

"_I said no._"

The two of them stood there and stared at each other for a while, and then Mrs. Hudson appeared at the bottom of the steps, giving the pair a curious look.

"What are you two doing?" She asked.

"Nothing," John curtly replied. Mycroft turned around and gave the old landlady an exasperated look.

"John is being childish," He explained, "And refuses to let me into the flat."

"It's _my_ bloody flat!" John exclaimed.

"You couldn't afford it on your own, even if you wanted to," Mycroft scoffed, craning his neck around to smirk at the shorter man.

"You're a proper arse," John said with a grimace.

"And you're a middle-aged man with an adolescent attitude," Said Mycroft, " a poor IQ, and low income."

John glared at him. His jaw muscle visibly clenched as he grit his teeth. He couldn't help but wonder what the legal repercussions would be if he pushed Mycroft down the stairs.

"John, dear, what's going on?"

The older woman looked up at Mycroft, then over at John, who let out an obnoxious sigh.

"Mycroft won't _leave me the hell alone_," He said, keeping his eyes on the older Holmes.

"I just want to speak with my brother," Mycroft retorted.

"And I told you to come back next week."

"I haven't the time for that."

"Well I suppose that's unfortunate for you."

"This is idiotic."

"What is possibly so important that it can't wait a week?"

"Frankly, it's none of your business. It is between me and my brother, _who pays half of the rent, by the way._"

"Yes," John said, "He does. He and I own the flat. I don't remember any mention of a Mycroft on the lease."

"Where exactly do you think my brother gets most of his money, Doctor watson? He doesn't accept compensation from his private investigations, and his work at the yard is merely a hobby."

John took a moment to think this over. He knew he was beginning to lose the argument, but he wasn't about to give up- Sherlock would be rightfully _pissed_ if he let Mycroft see him in the state he was.

"What's your point?" He asked, trying to act indifferent on the matter.

"My point is, if he isn't feeling well, he can come out and tell me himself..._Because I practically pay for the oxygen he breathes._"

"Well, he doesn't want to." John said with a shrug.

"Do you speak for him, now?"

"Oh, _Sod off_."

"Although, I suppose you do everything for him, nowadays. He might as well put a leash on you."

"Shut up."

"Oh, _how mature_."

"You're pissing me off, Mycroft."

"And you're pissing _me_ off!"

"**_Boys_**!" Mrs. Hudson interrupted, overwhelmed by the obnoxiousness of their argument. Both men fell silent. John stared at Mycroft, surprised by his outburst. Mycroft squinted at him, and then looked down at Mrs. Hudson.

"_What has gotten into you two_?" Mrs. Hudson asked. John studied Mycroft a lingering moment longer, and then dragged his gaze over to the older woman, who had crossed her arms over her chest.

"Take your argument into the flat, or go outside."

With that, she left. Mycroft took a moment to think over something, and then swiftly spun back around and sighed.

"Fine. If you must know...my brother was involved in a car wreck last night, and I wish to speak to him about it. That is all."

John furrowed his brow, looking completely bewildered by this new information.

"_Car wreck_?"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>_Happy 5th day of December! :D_

_Thanks to all of you who have reviewed so far. You are all so lovely and inspirational._

_Next Chapter update on December 19._


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